


How To Meme Your Way Into His Heart

by nana_banana



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Comedy, Crossover, Hogwarts, Language, M/M, Mentioned Kate Argent, Rewrite, grumpy cat meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 00:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17415923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nana_banana/pseuds/nana_banana
Summary: Dressed as Batman, Mieczysław “Stiles” Stilinski breaks into the Restricted Section of the school library at 1 AM, but he's caught by Gryffindor's Head Boy. And while he definitely doesn't plan it, Stiles finds himself running for his life through the halls of the castle in the middle of the night alongside one very Grumpy Cat.





	How To Meme Your Way Into His Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [His name is Grumpy Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1815601) by [nana_banana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nana_banana/pseuds/nana_banana). 



> I found myself rereading my old fic, absolutely hated it, & chose to rewrite it. Here it is.
> 
> Do yourself a favor & do NOT read the old version.

It was dark in the library, gas lamps dormant and torches extinguished. The moonlight filtered through the windows lazily, casting deep, ominous-looking shadows among the hundreds of shelves.

At the back of the library, in an area enclosed by a high, wooden wall, there was a small shuffling noise, followed by a restrained grunt. 

_So close. Almost there. Please just let me…_

A single beam of light stood out in the yawning blackness. A flashlight resting idly on a shelf shone against a row of bindings, illuminating their titles along with the stretch of a fifteen-year-old boy clinging to the bookcase ten feet off the ground. Stiles lifted one foot and tentatively placed it on the shelf above it, foot shuffling on the wood to get a firm perch. But at the ominous creak the wood released, he returned it to its original position, gripping the shelf even tighter. He tried to extend his arm further, the tips of his fingers brushing the bottom of the worn book. His other hand gripped the shelf itself. He grunted as he stretched, doing his best to stay quiet. Every noise he made felt magnified in the dark, echoing off the cavernous, vaulted ceilings of the castle. 

It must have been no later than one o'clock in the morning and he was a student out of bed. It was safe to say that if he were caught, there would be dire consequences. Maiming, possibly, maybe even a little death. Mieczysław “Stiles” Stilinski expected nothing less than a little maiming at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Which was why he so desperately needed to stay quiet as a mouse. 

Or maybe _not_ a mouse, considering Mrs. Ennis, an infamously malicious cat, was likely stalking the school at that very moment. He did not want her to catch him and alert her equally nasty owner, Adrian Harris, caretaker of the school. 

_Caretaker, schmaretaker,_ Stiles thought. 

There was not a single ounce of “care” in the tall, lanky, narrow-faced man known as Adrian Harris. Stiles was wholeheartedly convinced that Harris's actual job was corporal punishment. Not that anyone would admit it to him, no matter who or how many times he asked because _“there_ is _no corporal punishment at Hogwarts, Stiles.”_ Or so Headmaster Yukimura had assured him countless times. 

But Stiles knew better. He had heard whispered tales of rule-breaking students tortured in the dungeons and their memories altered after the fact. Yet, the deep-seated fear remained and the whispers continued. There was no other explanation as to why the entire student body was so terrified of ending up in Adrian Harris's office, Stiles included. Or why Harris owned so much torture equipment. 

Once upon a detention, Stiles had _seen_ that horrifying collection. He had been required to dust, polish, and oil every piece by hand as a silently smiling Harris looked on. 

The experience had sufficiently scarred him for life. 

It had also cemented his belief that Adrian Harris was definitely guilty. There was no one who abhorred the students more than he. Stiles suspected a profound envy was the cause for Harris's hatred of the students. Being a squib in a school of magic was bound to create a fathomless well of resentment. 

Stiles was _sure._ All he needed was evidence, and he would find it one day. He totally would. Harris was bound to slip up. And when Stiles set his mind to something, there was little one could do to deter him. 

Stubbornness and resilience. That was why he was currently in the Restricted Section at one in the morning after all, dreading discovery. He could _not_ be caught. Because as previously stated, _maiming would happen._

It gave Stiles goosebumps to think what Harris would do to him if the stern, bespectacled man found him outside the Slytherin dormitory in the library wearing a superhero cape — on which Stiles had ironed his House crest because he was in a _freaking wizard school_ — with a mask, no less. 

Understandably enough, the only thing that came to Stiles' mind at the thought of Harris catching him was _thumb screws._ The memory of seeing the torture device in Harris's office, placed like a trophy on his desk, slid to the forefront of his mind's eye and he shuddered. 

Shifting his footing on the large bookshelf, he reached up again, disregarding both his precarious balance and the foreboding whine of the shelves. The half of his brain that was not concentrating on his goal was deeply regretting his forgotten wand. Because _of course he did._ The only reason he had any light at all was because he was still riding the high of having found a viable conduction device to spell into absorbing the magic in the air like an ever-charging battery. Sure, he had his wand to provide light, but spelling a flashlight to work in Hogwarts was the first step to bigger things. 

Stiles had _plans._

But that did not excuse his current lack of wand. In fact, Stiles did not really have an excuse. He had spent the first eleven years of his life without it and he was not even allowed to use it back home. Not that he would otherwise. Being the son of a muggle sheriff meant his magic was a secondary characteristic, and everything he did had to be achieved with his own two hands because _“how else will you survive in the event you do not have your wand, Stiles!”_ His father's voice filled his head, and Stiles rolled his eyes, gripping the shelf tighter when he felt himself waver. That was not to say that he did not take pride in being able to do things on his own without magic. He did. It made him feel quite smug that if his fellow pureblood classmates were rendered wandless, they might very well be rendered useless. 

Because if there was one thing he had learned while at Hogwarts, it was that magical people with no ties to the muggle world relied solely on their magic for _everything._ It was vaguely alarming. 

But not at all Stiles' problem, so screw that. 

More than once, he found himself stared at like a roadside attraction whenever he did anything without magic. It was not that his peers did not know that some people had to manage without magic, but seeing it in action was completely novel to several of his fellow Slytherins. 

Regardless of how superior he felt, Stiles _loved_ magic. The fact that he forgot his wand only proved what an absentminded fool he could be, and nothing else. It was not like his wand was his life. Only, it totally was, according to his friend, Lydia Martin. And if she ever found out, she would _have his head._ Because _“what kind of wizard forgets the most important instrument they will ever own, Stiles!”_ Or so he had been told. Repeatedly. 

Someday soon, Lydia was sure to magically fuse the wand to his hand, surgically even, if she had to. Lydia was terrifying enough to learn how to do it, too, if it meant teaching Stiles a lesson he would not soon forget. There was a severe pettiness in Lydia that ran all the way down to her soul, and Stiles admired her as much as he feared her. 

But for the matter at hand, he sure missed his wand. Not that he could even summon the book to him if he had it. The advanced spells protecting this particular section of the library would have seen to that, but he was sure he could have figured something out. 

_Oh, come on,_ he grumbled to himself, _I'm almost friggin' there!_

“What do you think you're doing?” A sharp voice punctured the silence and Stiles squeaked as he whipped his head around. His movement cost him dearly as his right foot slipped off the shelf — _Fuck!_

Stiles scrambled to grab a hold of something, anything. But all his wild flailing managed to do was knock the flashlight off, sending it to the floor with a clatter. There was a tinkle of shattering glass, and the light instantly went out as Stiles fell. He braced himself for the impact and inevitable pain, scrunching his eyes shut. A jolt shook his entire body as he came to an abrupt stop, and he opened his eyes to see an extremely grumpy face. His heart thudded in surprise and his stomach convulsed oddly. 

_Grumpy cat!_

A dark-haired teen stared back at him, wand raised and deeply unamused. The tip of the long and thin holly wood was glowing, casting light anew. The stranger's fuzzy caterpillar eyebrows were drawn together in a tight scowl with very judgmental quirks at the edges. Stiles was mildly offended. Eyebrows had no business looking so excessively critical. Not at one in the morning, anyhow. It was no wonder Stiles' first impression of him was a dumb meme from the muggle world. They sported identical brows. 

Pushing that thought aside, he frowned as his eyes fell upon an inverted Gryffindor Head Boy badge. A sting of resentment filled him at that. It was just his luck to be caught in the Restricted Section by a goddamn _Gryffindor._ But looking back to his face, Stiles was distracted by the fact that it was _also_ inverted. 

Well, that was unusual. Not that an upside down badge was _usual_ in the first place, but it paved the way for a certain realization. 

“Why are you upside down?” Stiles asked the guy. 

“I'm not,” came the curt reply. The scowling face only soured more. It hit Stiles then that he was floating upside down in midair, held aloft by the Head Boy's wand. 

“Oh, _dude!”_ Stiles said excitedly, swinging his arms and struggling to keep his voice down. 

“Don't call me dude,” the guy gruffly replied, but Stiles was undeterred by the less than stellar attitude. 

“You caught me in midair — that is _so cool,”_ Stiles hissed. “How did you do it? You didn't even _say_ anything! So _fast,_ too.” His eyes narrowed on the wand pointed right at his nose. “What is that, fourteen inches? Holly — is that holly? Really? What kind of core you got?” 

The Venerable Head Boy of Gryffindor, Grumpy Cat McEyebrows — and Stiles immediately promised himself to lay off the internet when he went home for the holidays — well, he did not appear the least bit pleased by Stiles. Highly unfortunate, that. _Scowly_ as he was, the guy was handsome, and Stiles was certain the older boy would look downright devastatingly gorgeous with a smile, even if it was just a smirk. 

It was then that Stiles spotted his flashlight, lying broken on the floor, and he squawked in emotional pain. 

“It broke!” 

Grumpy Cat followed his gaze, keeping his wand in place as he reached down to take hold of the casing with most of the parts. 

“Is this a flashlight?” he muttered disbelievingly, and Stiles rolled his eyes hard. 

“Yes,” Stiles said stiffly. “Thanks for breaking it.” At his remark, he was cast a dark look as Grumpy Cat straightened. Impossibly, those bushy brows became even more judging. It was most extraordinary. His gaze soon returned to the flashlight, and Stiles watched him flip the broken object over in his hand. 

“Were you actually using this?” Grumpy Brows asked quietly, briefly meeting Stiles' eyes before his gaze was drawn back to the object in apparent captivation. 

“Duh,” Stiles huffed, and Grumpy Cat looked at him, his expression warring between confusion and annoyance. The emotions tied, and Grumpy Cat expressed his annoyance in refusing to ask another question, and his confusion in examining the object more closely. Moving his wand, he jabbed it at the broken pieces left on the floor. They lifted from the ground to the air, floating next to the casing he held. 

And before Stiles could stop him, he tapped the casing once with the end of his wand. Seamlessly, the pieces came together and the device repaired itself. Looking on, Stiles gaped, astonished. 

“Seriously, how do you do that thing where you don't speak to cast spells? I thought only the professors could do that.” 

Without answering, the Gryffindor flicked the button, and a beam of light shined out of it, much to both their surprise. 

“You fixed it,” Stiles whispered in awe. “Thanks, man.” 

“This shouldn't even be working,” Grumpy Cat mumbled, fingers shifting as if he were tempted to take it apart just to see how it worked. “How did you manage it?” And Stiles hardly dared believe it, but Grumpy Cat sounded _impressed._

“What, like it's hard?” Stiles joked, and the fascination quickly fell from the other's face. “Not a Witherspoon fan then?” In answer, the guy flicked the light off and shoved it into the pocket of his robes. Stiles made to protest such an act, but then the wand was being pointed right back at him and he shut right back the fuck up. 

“You didn't answer my earlier question,” the Head Boy pointed out, wand rising just the slightest bit. “What were you doing in here?” 

Stiles did not miss the threat in the small movement, and his heart skipped a beat as he promised himself to never again _forget his damn wand._ He swore the guy was only getting grouchier by the second. Like an angry bird with ruffled feathers, the dude's eyebrows had puffed up, and they were practically vibrating with irritation. Stiles half-expected them to leap off and attack him like a pair of angry caterpillars in all their bushy fury. 

Grumpy Cat indeed. Stiles wondered if it hurt to glare that hard. 

Gulping dryly, he choked and coughed. Hanging upside down really threw Stiles' body out of whack. Even simple things like swallowing were difficult. 

“What were you doing?” Head Grumpy Cat bit out once more, losing patience and quickly adding, “And what are you _wearing?”_

Stiles raised his head to look at his very normal long-sleeve and flannel sleeping pants before he dropped his head, looking towards the floor to see his Batman costume. It wriggled beneath him as he moved, and he shrugged, letting his arms hang loosely towards the floor. He had chosen to wear the attire on a whim since he thought it would help him blend into the dark. 

Batman _was_ the night, after all. _Plus_ it gave him mystique and the mask was _awesome._

He would fight the fool who said otherwise. Wandless, likely, considering how often he forgot it. 

“Batman's awesome,” Stiles said. “Do I really need a reason.” It was not a question. 

“I'm partial to Superman myself,” Grumpy Cat answered, and Stiles balked. 

“Blasphemy,” he hissed, and Eyebrows McGee shrugged at him. 

_Shrugged_ at him. _Shrugged!_ Like it did not even matter. As if Batman was not the most incredible superhero in the world without question. 

Stiles was very offended. 

“Now tell me what you're doing here,” Grumpy Cat pressed more insistently. 

Biting at his lip, Stiles quickly floundered for an excuse with only _a little_ flailing. It had to be believable, too, if he hoped to get out of this dilemma unscathed. He half-contemplated not saying a thing for that disrespectful Superman comment alone. 

“I'm … looking for something?” 

Stiles hated how it came out like a question, high-pitched and wavering, like an obvious lie. And while it was not exactly a lie, it did not stop Head Eyebrows from giving him such a stink eye, it made Stiles want to rub an egg all over his body to rid himself of the curse the guy was surely inflicting upon him. 

Oh, the glory that were those eyebrows. Stiles could write an epic about them. Or twenty. 

Homer Schmomer, the Greek hero had nothing on this dude's magnificent eyebrows. All thick and full-bodied like Fabio Lanzoni's luscious hair. Stiles tilted his head in consideration. If he grew his hair out, Grumpy Cat would make a great Fabio. 

“Are you aware you're speaking out loud?” 

“You think I'm embarrassed by the things that come out of my mouth?” Stiles retorted, waving his arms in challenge, and he felt no shame as he smirked. “Don't say what you don't mean, am I right, Fabio?” By the discomfort on Fabio McEyebrows' face, the one feeling embarrassed was him. Grumpy Cat cleared his throat and quickly returned to his previous string of interrogation with barely a disconcerted shuffle. 

“So what were you looking for?” the Head Boy asked in what Stiles figured was an attempt to save face. Though, the suspicion curling his words sure was convincing. 

“Something of mine that I misplaced earlier,” Stiles promptly replied. He was a pretty good liar if he said so himself. After four years at Hogwarts, he had to be if he wanted to keep his magic secret from his muggle friends. 

But Grumpy Cat did not buy it for a second, if the stony look he was giving Stiles was any indication. It made Stiles glad Medusa was only myth — he hoped. Those eyebrows definitely had the power to turn people to stone with the amount of judging going on. 

Hell, maybe Grumpy Cat was part Basilisk and he would be petrified by how hard he was being glared at. It could totally happen. Werewolves, vampires, and banshees were a thing, a human-snake hybrid should only be expected at this point. 

“I'm supposed to believe that?” said the King of Disgruntled Felines. 

Which, hey, that really was not fair. Stiles could have _totally_ left, like, a quill or something there earlier when he and his best bud were studying. Not that they had been anywhere near the Restricted Section, or even studying for that matter, but that was not anyone's business but his own, especially not Eyebrows McGee here. 

“Excuse you, I could've totes left something here!” Stiles objected. 

“And you thought you would get out of bed at one in the morning to retrieve it?” 

Stiles winced. So maybe Grumpy Cat and his eyebrows were right. There was no real, acceptable reason to be out of bed so late, even if he _had_ misplaced a quill. 

“It was important?” Stiles inwardly groaned. It grated on him that his answers were still coming out like questions, full of hesitation like he was lying. Although, maybe that had to do with the fact that, oh, he _totally was._ “What's it to you if I lost something?” 

“In the _Restricted_ Section?” came the disbelieving scoff. 

And Stiles really did not appreciate how that came out, a sting of indignation prickling at him. He did not understand where this guy came off acting all high and mighty like Stiles was a bad kid, here for nefarious purposes. Which, okay yeah, he _was,_ but again, that was not anyone's business but his own. Grumpy Cat had no reason to stand there, criticizing him like he _knew_ Stiles was full of shit. 

Only his father had the burden, nay, the _privilege,_ of calling Stiles out on his shit. It took special skill to be that well-versed in Stilinski bullshit. It was practically a specialty. This walking, talking meme had no right to make Stiles feel so transparent. 

“What the hell are you trying to say?” he demanded of the teen currently holding a wand to his face. In retrospect, being rude while hanging upside down and wandless probably was not his smartest move. One that he continually put into use, if his stints in detention were any indication. Whoever said Stiles had even an inkling of self-preservation was obviously kidding themselves. 

His dad would be so disappointed. 

Grumpy Cat leaned in then, staring at him closely. His nostrils flared in a badly-concealed, and frankly, _bewildering_ sniff. He frowned as recognition sparked in his eyes. 

“You're a fourth year,” Grumpy Cat sneered with such derision in his voice, that it made Stiles' hackles rise, and Stiles definitely did _not_ find him cute at all. Nope. Ass-faces were not worthy of being found cute by Stiles. No siree Bob! 

But Stiles' outrage was cut short when Ass-face's words registered in his head. 

“How do you know that?” he shot. “That I'm a fourth year?” 

And Stiles would have been rightfully rankled over the sparkle of dark amusement shining in the guy's light-colored eyes if he had not been so damn curious for the answer. Stiles honestly wondered who gave this guy the right to be such an asshole. 

“Excuse me?” said the Grumpiest of Cats. 

Oh, he had said that out loud. 

“I'm wearing a mask, you didn't recognize my face,” Stiles pressed. 

A twitch spasmed in Grumpy Cat's massive brows, and he huffed softly. 

“I know your voice,” Grumpy Cat said slowly. 

“My voice,” Stiles said equally slowly. 

“You tripped on your way to the sorting hat four years ago,” Eyebrows McGee divulged. “Hard to forget someone who embarrasses themselves on their first night.” And like the asshole he obviously was, he smirked. 

Stiles was wrong. He was so, _so_ wrong. Grumpy Cat did _not_ look good with a smirk. It was in no way flattering. He hated the very sight of it and wanted to wipe it off his beautiful, sculpted, gorgeously-cheekboned face with his fist. Stiles suspected magic had heavy involvement in this guy's development! 

_J'accusé!_ Stiles thought indignantly. 

But then he was struck by the full implications of the teen's words. Regardless of the mean teasing, the guy had just admitted that Stiles had made enough of an impression four years ago to be _remembered_ and _recognized_ by _voice alone._ He did not care how good someone's memory was, no one just _remembered_ an idiot tripping on their way to the stool after _four years,_ their voice much less, even if Stiles' incident had been spectacularly embarrassing. He had, of course, been remembered by most of his class, but the upperclassmen had never looked at him twice before, especially not seventh years. 

So although he was strangely flattered, Stiles was still justly peeved. 

“You know,” Stiles crossly sniped, “as much as I appreciate your lame flirting, I'd be really grateful if you let me down now.” He was starting to get dizzy, what with all the blood currently rushing to his head. It was also sort of hard to breathe from his unfortunate position, but rather than listening to Stiles, Grumpy Cat's eyes narrowed into a frown once more. 

“I wasn't flirting,” he protested, miffed, as though he were thoroughly pained by the idea, that, in no way, hurt Stiles' feelings. _No, it did not._ “You're like _fourteen.”_

“Is that supposed to be an insult?” Stiles asked, though there was no doubt that the comment had _smarted._ Not that he would ever admit it, because he was nothing if not in serious denial. “For your information, Grumpy Cat, I'm _fifteen,_ which is, like, only _two_ years younger than you —” 

_“Grumpy cat?”_

That could not have possibly been the only thing this guy had heard. But Stiles knew difficult people when he was invariably harassed by them — even subtly. And Eyebrows McGee, with all his wand-waving suspicion, was sure as hell difficult. Case in point, he had still to _let him down._

“It's a _meme,”_ Stiles bit out. His oxygen levels were sure starting to feel startlingly low. “From the _internet,_ you _neanderthal —”_

“I know what a _meme_ is, you brat!” 

Stiles felt a sharp spike of anger at that. 

“What are you, eighty?” Stiles let out a strangled laugh. “Getting ready for your dentures, there, buddy — wait, how do you know Grumpy Cat?” He flailed in the air. He really needed to be let down soon. 

“How do _you_ know Grumpy Cat?” was the wary retort he received. 

Chewing the inside of his lip, Stiles debated whether to answer truthfully or to completely fib. He opened his mouth to lie his ass off, because he had no reason to tell the truth otherwise. But instead of a carefully constructed lie, what came out of his mouth was, “I'm muggle-born.” 

He deflated. 

Stiles had not been planning on revealing that to _anyone._ Yet he had just spilled it to this complete stranger. He blamed the handsome face that had beguiled him into loosening his lips. There was certainly _something_ about the guy that was causing Stiles to continually mess up. It alarmed him. His blood status was one of his most well-kept secrets. Like his first name. Heck, he was sure half the staff was unaware of his real name. At the sorting, Professor Deaton had taken one look at his name and called out “Stilinski!” rather than even make an attempt to butcher his name. 

As it was, those of his fellow Housemates who only cared about the prestigious status of pure bloodlines, thought him to be half-blood and paid him no mind. Though, had they bothered to research him thoroughly, they would have found his family had not one inkling of magic. Stiles was thankful they had barely bothered to scrape the surface. 

And those who were bothered to get to know him usually let things be when he said his mother had been a witch who had passed right before he had gotten his acceptance letter. It helped that Stiles was a research pro who had delved into the magical world with gusto. It had helped cover his tracks. 

Thankfully, he was not that popular. 

“But you're in _Slytherin,”_ spat Grumpy Cat upon seeing the House crest as if the very name of Stiles' House was poison on his tongue. 

“What's your _point?”_ Stiles glared at him. “You do realize that the hat sorts you according to your strengths, not the content of your blood, right?” Granted, there were times the stone wall entrance to the Slytherin common room refused to open up to him, even when he said the password _correctly._ Not that he would be telling Grumpy that. Nope. His point would stand. 

He was _in_ Slytherin and he would _stay_ in Slytherin, dammit! He doubted it was possible to even change Houses. 

“Whatever.” Stiles interrupted what was undoubtedly some incredible mental gymnastics, according to those spasming eyebrows. “You just keep that little bit of information to yourself. No one actually knows that I'm…” He trailed off. 

A beat passed between them, and Grumpy Cat relaxed his stance. 

“I'm muggle-born too,” the other finally admitted, his voice oddly soft. Stiles was still struggling to comprehend his tone when Fabulous Eyebrows followed with, “Derek. That's my name.” 

“What?” was Stiles' brilliant input. 

“My name,” Derek repeated. “Derek.” And there was not even an ounce of derision in his words. 

Stiles felt himself light up in an instant. A grin stretched across his face. 

“Good.” Stiles nodded. “Now I can stop calling you Grumpy Cat.” 

“Why is that even an option?” Derek asked, and a pinched look of constipation crossed his features, though he did not actually seem very irritated. 

“Have you _seen_ your face?” Stiles pointed out, lifting a hand to haphazardly gesture at said angry-looking visage, handsome though it was. 

_Forget Basilisks, this dude's part Veela,_ Stiles thought. It certainly explained why his bullshit was not operating at one hundred percent efficacy. 

“You do realize a painful fall is highly possible for you?” was Derek's retort, and Stiles clamped his mouth shut, but Derek had begun to grin. It sorta, kinda, maybe completely took Stiles' breath away. Even wry as it was, it was still magnificent enough to leave him breathless. And he had been right. Derek looked good with a smile. It certainly did not help with Stiles' struggle to, you know, _keep breathing while hanging upside down._

“Mind telling me what you're _really_ doing out of bed in the Restricted Section at one o'clock in the morning?” Derek's small grin slipped away into something a little more serious, and Stiles absently mourned the loss of it. 

In answer, he hummed in indifference. 

“Well, since I'm getting in trouble anyway, I guess I'll tell you,” Stiles muttered and flatly stated, “I'm looking for a cookbook.” Derek's visage faltered then, confusion overtaking him. Caterpillar eyebrows wriggled on his forehead. 

“How is it that you're not lying?” he asked. To which, Stiles gave him a cool look. 

“Uh, maybe because I'm not?” He exasperatedly strained, waving his arms. Stiles could hear his heart pounding in his head. Hanging upside down was the absolute _worst._

But before Derek had a chance to refute his claim, a loud creak interrupted them. Derek's nostrils flared as he twisted around, and the wand's light went out. Quickly, he waved his wand to set Stiles down softly, but abruptly enough that he made a noise of surprise. Grabbing him, Derek was quick to clamp a hand over Stiles' mouth, bodily dragging him into the shadow of a shelf as Stiles struggled to make his world stop spinning as the blood in his body sped everywhere at once. 

He still managed to lower Derek's hand from his nose, because _breathing._ It was a thing that was important to him. 

“It's Mrs. Ennis,” Derek hissed into his ear. 

Stiles shivered at the breath fanning over his ear, skin buzzing, heart racing, and, most of all, feeling rather unlucky in Derek's haphazard embrace. The hand twitched over his mouth and Stiles was suddenly paranoid that Derek knew just how flustered Stiles' traitorous body was at that moment. His anxiety sufficiently distracted from the weirdness of Derek thinking he knew for certain that whatever was out there was Harris's cat. The cavernous place was silent as it had been before, and though Derek was tense behind him, his grasp was loose. It would have been easy enough to break free, but Stiles did not think to make a run for it. Though, to be fair, he was not thinking much further than regaining his bearings. 

Any doubt there could have been about whether or not Harris's cat was prowling about the library was shot dead when the cat sauntered around the bookshelf. Bathed in moonlight, she planted her butt firmly in the middle of the aisle and gazed at them with her judging, yellow eyes. 

Abruptly, he shuffled Stiles around, manhandling him to his side. He gripped him by the arm and straightened his back as he gazed down at Mrs. Ennis. When he spoke, an authoritative voice left his lips. 

“I'm just about to report him for being up late,” Derek said to the cat. “You can leave.” Stiles rolled his eyes because, yes, Derek was indeed talking to the cat. The ridiculousness of the situation was not lost on him. But he most definitely was in trouble if the cat was there already. Harris would surely be right behind her. 

The thought sent a shiver of terror down Stiles' spine. 

And just to prove how horrible she really was, Stiles guessed, the cat meowed at them, _loudly._

“Damn it.” Derek whirled his wand, and a streak of a red spell hit her dead-on. Pushing away from Derek, Stiles felt his mouth fall open in shock as the cat collapsed. 

_“Did you seriously just stun Mrs. Ennis?”_ he demanded. 

Derek rounded on him with a grimace, wand at the ready. His eyes darted to Stiles' hands with a frown. 

“I'm not actually supposed to be in here!” Derek whispered furiously, and it dawned on Stiles that he was not the only one who could potentially be in trouble at that moment. Head Boy or not, Derek had no business being up that Stiles knew of. 

“Where's your wand?” Derek demanded next. 

“Wait, you're breaking the rules, too?” Stiles gasped, scandalously excited. Derek was successfully distracted from his inquiry as he fidgeted nervously, and Stiles stared at him, incandescently joyful. “You totally freaking are! Oh, my god, I am in love with you right now. Were you looking for illicit potions too?” Stiles was grinning and Derek's glower pinched even more. 

“Shut up!” Derek gritted out as quiet as he could, but Stiles had started bouncing on his feet, ecstatic. Derek, the Head Boy, was breaking some rule and that was why he had not immediately ratted him out. Nothing Derek could say then would stop the overwhelming glee he was feeling at knowing that the Head Boy of Gryffindor was out breaking rules and sullying his goody-two-shoes reputation. Because only people who were a goody-two-shoes ended up being Head Boy, which was why Stiles would never be one. 

That he also lacked leadership qualities and a moral compass were neither here nor there. 

Just then, the blood drained from Derek's face and before Stiles could ask what was wrong, he heard it. 

The quick, sure gait. The bull-like breaths. It was _Adrian Harris_ and he was heading towards them _fast._

“Holy guacamole, I think it's time to scram, Robin!” Stiles hissed. 

Derek seized Stiles' hand without hesitation, frowning at him as he stuffed his wand back into his pocket. 

“In this scenario, there's no way I'm Robin,” he said seriously before yanking Stiles down between the shelves and out a side door, his robes and Stiles' black cape billowing out behind them. As they hurried onward, Stiles realized that he had never actually been through this particular hallway before. He vaguely wondered if the door they had escaped through had always been there. He certainly did not remember ever seeing it. 

Stiles was brought back from his reverie when Derek pulled him to a stop. He was huffing in breaths as he looked around to see that they were in an unused classroom. The desks and chairs were neatly stacked against the wall and though the room was not in use, there was not a speck of dust in sight. 

“How — is it — that — nothing is — ever dusty?” Stiles grumbled, still panting. He swallowed a handful of deep breaths before continuing. “I could totally use a spell like this at home,” he let out in a whoosh. “Seventeen can't come soon enough.” 

“House elves,” Derek distractedly answered under his breath. The asshole was not even winded, much to Stiles' vexation. “Now shut up! I'm trying to listen.” 

“There's house elves at Hogwa —” Stiles abruptly closed his mouth, skin blanching paler than the moon itself. 

“I said —” Derek turned to snap at Stiles, but he quickly caught on and the blood drained from his face as well. 

“What's this?” 

The pair of them stood frozen, gazing up at the ceiling. Unscrewing the chandelier was none other than Jackson, the school poltergeist and bane of Stiles' existence. 

From the moment they had first laid eyes on each other, Jackson and Stiles had despised one another, and Stiles was not entirely sure why. It was like a visceral hate that emanated from the gut every time he laid eyes on the dick. Jackson was blonde and blue-eyed, a spirit of chaos that had managed to make itself an attractive, human-appearing form, and who only ever listened to one Lydia Martin. 

In Stiles' perspective, he looked like the douche football star of every teen movie. 

Jackson's gaze zeroed in on Stiles, and he grinned maliciously. Derek reached for his wand, but Jackson was much too quick for him, already belting out an alarm at the top of his voice. 

_“STUDENTS OUT OF BED, STUDENTS OUT OF BED, STUDENTS OUT OF BEEEED!”_

Derek cursed loudly as he sent a spell Jackson's way. Without checking to see if it made contact, he grabbed Stiles' arm and bolted from the room. 

They were halfway down the hall when they heard Harris's bellowing, huffing voice behind them. 

“I see you, you little ingrates! Stop!” 

Stiles had absolutely no intention of listening to Harris, and to his credit, neither did Derek. They picked up their pace, Derek half-pulling Stiles along. While Stiles was no track star, he was not slow either. But at the rate Derek was running, if he had not been holding Stiles' arm, Stiles was sure he would have been left in Derek's dust. 

“In here!” Derek shoved Stiles through a tapestry, and for a second, Stiles braced himself for the impact, feet faltering. Surprisingly, he went straight through what he had thought to be a solid wall, and Stiles tripped over his own feet in an effort to correct his misstep. 

But while Stiles struggled to regain his footing, Derek sensed his hesitation and wrapped an arm around him, hauling him forward. 

Managing a brief glance around, Stiles realized they had come upon a hidden staircase. However, he was unable to fully take it in because Derek still was not stopping, and Stiles found himself being led up the stairs at a merciless rate. For several moments, both Stiles' feet actually paddled air as Derek dragged him up, practically carrying him with a strength that was utterly baffling. 

At the top of the stairs, Derek's arm dropped him and his hand grabbed at Stiles' own. Without missing a beat, he pulled Stiles along just as quick as before. 

The castle was silent around them but for the small snores coming from the portraits hanging on the walls and Stiles' huffing breaths. They could not even hear Harris anymore. Derek was rushing down past doors and hallways, and Stiles was starting to feel a painful stitch in his side. Four seconds after they had passed a statue of a bewildered-looking wizard, Stiles wanted to tell Derek to stop, but before he could, Derek halted at a door and hurriedly whispered, “Soft lavender!” 

The door opened and Derek pushed Stiles inside ahead of himself, darting in after him. Once inside, he closed the door quickly, but quietly. They had stopped for the moment, and Stiles took the chance to finally catch his breath and return his galloping heart rate back to normal. He bent over, hands braced on his knees, gasping in sweet, sweet air as he looked around the place they were in. There was a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the candles all lit as one to softly illuminate the room. The walls and floors were a glittering, white marble, and Stiles inhaled sharply at the sight of the bath that was the size of a swimming pool. 

There was even a diving board. 

Mouth open in awe, he straightened up and walked towards it, footsteps echoing. On the far wall were stained glass windows. Depicted in the middle was a blonde mermaid sleeping on a rock. She was moving as she breathed, and Stiles felt nothing but wonder at that. He had never before seen glass enchanted with the same spell as photographs or paintings. It was remarkably impressive, though Stiles wondered at the decision to add the mermaid in a bathroom where most valued their privacy. He turned to comment upon the fact to Derek, but Derek was still at the door, listening intently for any sound. 

His body language was loose, though, and Stiles took that to mean they were safe. For how long, he was not sure. As a spirit of chaos, Jackson liked best to keep things in disarray, but the poltergeist also despised him. All in all, Stiles calculated a fifty-fifty chance that Jackson would tell on him. 

_But that's a problem for future Stiles,_ he thought dismissively. 

Turning back to his wondrous surroundings, he could see dozens of taps lining one edge with different jewels and his fingers itched to turn every single one. Biting his lip and unable to resist, he reached for a bright red-jeweled tap and choked on a shriek when a blonde, curly-haired ghost popped her head out of it. The sudden appearance of the ghost had set his heart racing all over again. 

“What are you doing here?” she asked, nose scrunched in curiosity. “You're not a prefect, or a Head Boy.” She tilted her head. “Little young to be a captain, too.” 

Stiles palmed at his chest, calming his frightened heart, and blinked at her. When recognition hit, he pointed a finger straight at her face. 

“Wait, aren't you —” 

“Erica!” Derek interrupted. He came over to Stiles' side, shooting him a warning look, and Stiles dropped the hand. It suddenly dawned on Stiles that he could have upset the infamously volatile Erica with a single utterance of the tasteless moniker that followed her around due to her penchant for wailing. It also struck Stiles that Derek had nice eyes. In the flickering candlelight, they looked a breathtaking hazel-green. 

He wondered how they would look in the daylight. 

As Stiles taught himself how to breathe again, Erica looked up at Derek's voice, and a bright, flirty smile overtook her mouth. 

“Derek!” she simpered. “Been a while since I've seen you. Here for a bath?” She slid out from the taps and straightened, coyly placing her hands behind her. 

Stiles raised both eyebrows in surprise. That Erica seemed to have a crush on Derek was incredibly baffling to him. He turned to give Derek a mischievous smirk, and it was pointedly ignored. 

“Ah, no,” Derek said, a slightly uncomfortable look crossing his features. “Actually, we're hiding. It's good to see you, though.” The last part was said so genuinely, that Stiles had to take a moment to blink. Erica batted her eyelids and perked up even more at Derek's comment. Stiles rolled his eyes, both in disbelief and exasperation. He could not believe that Erica was actually harboring a crush on Derek. He promptly shut down the sneaky part of his brain whispering that she was not the only one. 

“Ooh, I can help,” Erica said brightly. “I can scout for you!” 

“Would you?” Derek gratefully asked. 

Erica did not even bother to respond. She whizzed past them and through the door, leaving them in silence. 

Giving Derek his most bemused expression, Stiles pointedly raised an eyebrow, and Derek actually _growled_ at him. It was deep like some kind of lion, or possibly a bear, and it was as much frightening as it was _thrilling_ — not that Stiles had even wanted to know he was into something like that. It was also _very_ intriguing because, well, normal people did not actually _growl._

Well, to be fair, some did, but _not like that._

“Not a word,” Derek threatened. “Erica might be a little inappropriate, but she's a nice girl. If you say something about her or make her cry, I will _break your face.”_

And Stiles wished he had never known that the threat of bodily harm would absolutely do it for him, but alas, there he was, alarmed and aroused. It did not help that Derek was defending someone's honor like he was some kind of epic hero on a novel cover, namely Fabio Lanzoni. Stiles was just learning so much about himself today. Deeply embarrassed at his reactions, he shifted on the spot and raised a hand to rub at the back of his neck where he could feel his blush burning. Before him, Derek's expression shifted, part bewildered, and part embarrassed as if he knew how Stiles was feeling. 

Clearing his throat in shame, Stiles revived an old inquiry like it was his lifeline. 

“So what were you doing in the library?” he said instead of asking Derek to pin him to a wall or, really, any available surface. The floor would do. But he had a feeling that asking Derek to make out with him would not go over well. It had not with Lydia anyway — he still had the well-deserved hex marks to prove it, and his wrist still ached right before it rained. Hell, even teasing Derek for the huge crush Wailing Erica had on him was a better option. Not that he could blame her. Derek was incredibly attractive. Even his insecurities about his budding bisexuality could not blind him from that. 

“What were _you_ doing in the library?” was Derek's predictable counter. 

“Fine,” Stiles conceded. “I'll tell you, but you can't judge me.” Without waiting for Derek's input, he continued. “You know that new Seeker on the Gryffindor team?” Stiles huffed, waving his arms in irritation. “Wait, what am I talking about, of _course_ you know the stupid Gryffindor Seeker. You're _in_ Gryffindor!” Derek's eyes narrowed and Stiles felt his mouth twist in distaste. 

“You mean Dunbar, Liam Dunbar?” Derek clarified and Stiles nodded, rolling his eyes so hard, he thought he could see brain. 

“Yeah — boy wonder, that annoying, little shit.” Stiles sat at the edge of the empty pool, letting his feet dangle over the rim. “He's been getting a little too big for his britches, if you know what I mean. So's Cora, to be honest, but I'm terrified of her. She's not afraid to throw down.” At that, Derek's very impressive eyebrows shot up, a hint of amusement in his eyes, but he said nothing, so Stiles continued. “So I just wanted to knock Dunbar down a few pegs and find a potion to turn him into the toad that he is. Doesn't hurt that if he was out of commission for a while, maybe my buddy would get to play Seeker for once.” 

Derek came to stand next to him, tossing Stiles such a hard stare that Stiles squirmed a little under his gaze. 

“What!” Stiles finally snapped when he could not take it any longer. 

Derek glowered so hard his expression was practically molten lava. 

“You were going to turn him into a _toad?”_ Derek said, though his words sounded more like a statement than a question. “With a _potion?_ From a book in the _Restricted Section?”_

“Yeah, _so?”_ But Stiles was all bravado. 

_“'So'_ there's a _reason_ that those books are in the Restricted Section,” Derek snapped. “There's a reason that only sixth and seventh years are allowed in there and underclassmen like you need a note signed by a teacher to even ask for one! They're _dangerous_ and I'm so glad” — and, frankly, it was insulting how desperately relieved he looked — “I caught you before you could actually do any damage — not even to Dunbar, but _yourself._ If you don't do them correctly, potions, or even spells, could have _extremely dire consequences.”_

Petulantly, Stiles crossed his arms and pouted, cowed and guilty. 

“Well, when you say it like _that,”_ he said bitterly, not meeting Derek's eye. 

With a roll of his eyes that used his entire head, Derek rubbed his hands across his face in exasperation and took a seat next to Stiles. He let out a heavy breath. Stiles was sure that Derek was thinking the worst of him. 

“You're an idiot,” Derek muttered, and Stiles balked at the comment, but said nothing even as he seethed. “Especially since you could have just bribed a seventh year to transfigure him into a toad _for_ you. Because you're right, that little brat is getting on my nerves too and _I_ have to share a common room with him.” Stiles let out a breath he had not known he had been holding as he laughed. When he looked up, their eyes met, and Stiles was relieved to see a wry grin on Derek's face. 

“I knew I wasn't the only one who found him annoying!” he crowed. Slyly, he nudged Derek in the side with his elbow. “Know any seventh years I could bribe?” 

To Stiles' utter delight, Derek chuckled. 

“Maybe,” was all Derek said, and Stiles' heart thudded warm and sweet. He counted Derek's lack of denial as a win. 

“It's a wonder the things in our Care of Magical Creatures class all love him on sight,” Stiles scoffed. A smile lit his face when Derek nodded in agreement. 

“I've heard he's pretty good with them,” he commented idly. He knocked Stiles' shoulder with his own. “You know,” Derek said, “he's actually not that bad when you get to know him. He's got a bit of a temper, and he's a little big-headed when it comes to sports, but he's pretty nice to his friends. Anyway, Scott McCall is worse. I'm told he's the main reason Gryffindor loses whenever we play against Ravenclaw. Because of some Ravenclaw girl. He'd rather chase her than _be_ a chaser —” 

“Oh, don't you dare talk smack about my best friend!” Stiles jabbed Derek in the arm and Derek grimaced. 

“Oh, god, that lovesick moron is your _best friend?”_ Stiles jabbed him again for the insult and nodded firmly. But before he could say anything, Derek turned to give him a solemn bow of his head. “My condolences.” 

It ripped a surprised laugh out of Stiles. 

“Oh, my god, you're totally an asshole!” Stiles' eyes shone in ecstatic amazement, and he had said it in such good humor that Derek merely shrugged at him, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. “Okay,” Stiles said, waving a hand in granted clemency, “but he's _my_ moron, so lay off him. He thinks he's in love with Allison. He just needs a little time to grow up and realize that she doesn't actually light the stars at night.” Derek snorted at that and shook his head when Stiles shot him a look. But Stiles relented and laughed along. 

“Please tell me you're not as hopeless as Scott is,” Derek joked and Stiles lifted his head to show him a smug grin. 

“Nope, my motto is to have both feet planted firmly on the ground at all times except when I'm catching a snitch and sequentially winning a match.” 

_Or being pinned against a wall and ravished within an inch of my life,_ that sneaky part of his brain contributed helpfully. 

“How are you not embarrassed by the things that come out of your mouth?” Derek murmured, and Stiles realized with a jolt that he had said that out loud. 

“No shame,” Stiles said with forced nonchalance and a shrug. He tried his damnedest not to let his mortification show, but the blush stung his cheeks regardless. 

“You know, it makes sense,” Derek said. “All this time, I was wondering why Slytherin was doing so badly this yea — _oof!”_ Stiles retracted his elbow from Derek's side and frowned. He had not hit Derek hard enough to hurt, but he was definitely rethinking it when Derek did not falter in his shit-eating grin. 

On the plus side, Stiles' blush had vanished. 

“I'm the best Seeker to ever Seek, you jerk,” Stiles grumbled. “I'd hex you if I had my wand.” 

But when he glanced over, Derek's smile had turned disarmingly sincere, and Stiles' heart traitorously skipped a beat. He was beginning to find it hard to stay mad at that smile. Curiously, however, in the second after his heart betrayed him, Derek's eyes darted down to his chest, the slightest furrow in his brow. Yet before he could so much as consider the odd look, Derek was speaking, his eyes turning down to his clasped hands. 

“Where _is_ your wand?” Derek asked. “I noticed you haven't pulled it out.” 

“I forgot it in my room,” Stiles mumbled with a grimace. He tensed, waiting for the inevitable judgment that always followed that statement. However, Derek merely nodded like it was a completely acceptable answer. No judgment was detected. That, more than anything, endeared him to Stiles. 

“I'll admit that I've never actually seen you play,” Derek divulged regretfully, returning to the previous topic. “I don't usually go to Quidditch matches.” Stiles could feel an opportunity there and he knew it was his chance to extend his hand to Derek in a possible friendship. His heart rate instantly picked up, Derek's brow creasing minutely more. And if Stiles ever stopped being confused about what he wanted, there was a possibility for more than friendship. If Derek were even into that. 

“Maybe you could come to my next match to cheer me on?” he said offhandedly, but truthfully, though his heart was trying to beat itself out of his chest. He really wanted Derek to say yes. 

“Well, if I ever want to know how you play,” Derek slowly said, “I'll have to come watch, don't you think?” 

Stiles' mouth went dry. 

“Yeah,” he responded shakily, “so come see a match sometime, ya big lug.” Derek snickered and nodded, and it was easy, sitting there next to each other in silence. Stiles' heart returned to its normal setting, calmed by the tentative bond they were forming, and Derek's furrowed brow smoothed away. But Stiles would only ever be himself and he could not stay silent for long. 

“You still have my flashlight,” he said, and Derek instantly dug it out of his pocket, flicking it on. 

“I didn't think muggle technology worked here,” he said, echoing his earlier words. 

“You're right,” Stiles said, and Derek slowly lifted the light to shine just under Stiles' mask-covered nose. “Muggle tech doesn't work here,” he said. “The magic in the air disrupts the way things work and overloads the power sources. Eventually, it fries everything.” He extended a hand, and Derek promptly deposited the flashlight into it. Lifting it, Stiles shined the light on the taps, watching the jewels sparkle. 

“That's why I started so simple,” he said and shook the flashlight slightly. “All this does is turn on and off.” Turning to meet Derek's gaze, he smiled at the scholarly interest he saw there. Most people tuned him out by now. It was refreshing, having someone actually _listen_ for once. “So I brought like twenty flashlights — because trial and error — sans batteries, and created a variation of the protection spell to insulate the delicate wires from magic corrosion —” 

“Wait,” Derek said, holding out a hand as if he had planned to grip Stiles' arm. He dropped it back to his lap. “You _created_ a spell?” 

“A variation,” Stiles reiterated. “The protection spell is meant for people to stop magic. I needed that, but I also needed it to act like an insulating tube, not a _shield.”_ Stiles formed a circle with his hand. “So I came up with _protego infundibuli_. The pain-in-the-ass part was having to take it apart completely to spell every piece individually, then putting it back together.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. 

“And, well, then I had to find something that would actively absorb the magic in the air,” Stiles continued, “so I went through a bunch of trial and error to find something that _worked.”_ He sighed heavily. “I destroyed a _lot_ of flashlights.” Shaking his head, he shrugged. “Eventually, I realized that the answer was in plain sight the whole damn time!” He threw his hands out in exasperation. “Wands!” he shouted. “They're literally made to absorb and direct our damn magic —” 

“Please don't tell me you —” Derek started, horrified. 

“No, no,” Stiles interrupted, waving him off as if he knew what Derek was about to say. “No wands were harmed in the making of this flashlight.” He chuckled. “I did, however do a ton of research and found some less potent options — less expensive too — did you know you needed a license to buy certain wand cores? Like dragon heartstring. Apparently they're regulated. It's not too hard to get the license, but you have to be seventeen or over and I promised my dad I would try not to break any laws while I was here.” He shook his head and raised his hands as he shrugged his shoulders. He chose to ignore the slight alarm decorating Derek's face. “Anyway, wand cores. I did try using some unicorn hair I found in the forest —” 

“The forest — the _Forbidden Forest?”_ Derek gaped. 

“Yep,” Stiles said, nonplussed. 

“You went into _the Forbidden Forest?”_ Derek said, incredulous. 

“Yeah, it's not technically illegal, so it doesn't count as breaking the law,” Stiles said, completely missing his disbelief. 

“Of course,” Derek said numbly. 

Stiles nodded. 

“But,” Stiles said, raising a hand, “well, I'm not sure what happened exactly.” He scratched at his cheek. “It just sorta vanished.” He shrugged. “Anyway,” he said, “once I had something that worked, it was just a matter of spelling it to continuously, but _steadily,_ absorb magic on its own. It works like a battery.” Stiles grinned at Derek who stared back at him in shock and wonderment. 

“That's,” Derek said slowly and shook his head, as if to clear his mind, “completely, unbelievably incredible.” And it sent such a thrill up Stiles' spine to hear the amazement in his smooth voice. 

By now, Stiles' usual audience rolled their eyes and insisted that flashlights were unnecessary when you had a wand. But here Derek was, praising his hard work, and Stiles had not even gotten to his squib use defense. 

“Why not just spell a battery?” Derek asked then, and Stiles shook his head. 

“They overload and explode, remember?” Stiles said. “I was worried that they'd explode in my trunk by the time the welcome dinner was over, so I didn't bring any.” He shrugged. “I just figured out the spell recently, too, so I haven't even tried spelling a battery. Also, batteries run out. I'd have to spell a new one every time I needed one.” 

Derek nodded in understanding, the awed look in his face yet to leave him. 

“You're really smart,” Derek said. 

Suddenly bashful, Stiles ducked his head and shrugged. 

“Well, you know, I like to tinker,” he mumbled. Then, unable to stop there, “Just call me Tinker Bell because that's me.” 

“Alright, Tinker Bell,” Derek said, humored, and Stiles flushed crimson, covering his face with one hand. 

“Oh, my — not _literally,”_ Stiles groaned, and he searched for a change of subject. “Now it's your turn,” Stiles said, flustered as he turned off the lamp and tucked it into the pocket of his flannel pants. “What were _you_ doing in the library?” 

Clearing his throat, Derek breathed in and did not meet his eye when he answered. The shift in mood was sudden, the humor sapping out of the room until the atmosphere felt oppressive. As if Derek's very breath had taken in all the air. 

“I was supposed to be in bed like you,” Derek muttered, “but I like sneaking into the library to look up myths and things. I like to research cures and the beginnings of ailments and afflictions … like vampire bites. Research ways to cure people who've got to live with it.” 

It did not sound like a lie, exactly, but Stiles did not buy it. Derek could do all of that during the day when there was no danger of anyone taking away his Head Boy badge. 

“You realize, of course, that you can actually do that in the daytime?” He pointed out, but even after a while of waiting, Derek did not answer him. It became apparent rather quickly that that would be all Stiles would know of the subject. For now anyway. He figured he would have more luck when their friendship was stronger. 

If that ever happened. 

“So,” Stiles said, slapping at his knees and ready for a change of subject, “think our current D.A.D.A. teacher will kick the bucket this year?” But in reply, Derek merely shrugged noncommittally. 

And if the atmosphere had felt oppressive before, it had been nothing on what it felt like then. It was almost painful to draw a single breath, the silence from Derek like a shroud on what Stiles considered a fateful encounter. 

For a moment, Stiles thought he had wandered into another taboo topic, and opened his mouth to try again for another. But no words had a chance to escape him. 

“I honestly wouldn't mind if Professor _Argent_ took a swan dive off the Astronomy tower,” Derek muttered darkly. He was tense and Stiles could not help but think that he really _had_ just wandered onto another minefield of a topic. 

“Wow, what'd she _do_ to you?” Stiles asked before he could think about it. But then he heard the words, and he winced. “You don't have to answer that. It sounds personal, like _really_ personal. Forget I asked, even.” He shifted uncomfortably on the marble he sat upon, and if it had not been so quiet in the room, he would have missed Derek's soft sigh. 

“She might have murdered an entire family in cold blood seven years ago,” Derek started with a voice full of false indifference. He was staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused and hard. Next to him, Stiles had gone very still. “It was arson. They couldn't prove it, but I know it was her.” Derek's voice lowered to a hoarse whisper and he knew Derek was no longer speaking to him. “It _had_ to be her.” He sounded torn, and Stiles' heart thudded harshly. He hated that their fun conversation had turned so dark. He was also positive that Derek had completely forgotten his presence. 

“She was the only one who _knew.”_

Stiles placed a comforting hand on Derek's shoulder. He knew it was useless, that nothing he said or did could possibly bring Derek comfort when he sounded like _that,_ all heartbreak and stomach-curdling wretchedness. However, he had the slight hope that reminding Derek of his presence would break him from the dark path they had happened upon. Derek's eyes flashed bright blue for a brief second, and Stiles' grip tightened in surprise. 

The pieces fell easily into place after that. 

“…It was _your_ family she murdered.” 

Stiles understood, and he felt hollow. He could feel the vast hole of sorrow that Derek must have been feeling at that moment because he _knew._ He had figured it out as he was wont to do. Stiles was so caught up in the revelation he had pieced together, that he failed to notice how stiff Derek had become. “She's a werewolf hunter and your family was a pack of _werewolves._ I'm right, aren't I? Oh, fuck.” Stiles breathed, horrified. He abruptly recalled that Derek had said he was muggle-born and it made him feel a million times sicker. Non-magic users would not have stood a chance against a witch, no matter how much physical strength they had. 

“Jesus, you must feel so awful being in the same school with that evil…” 

Stiles could not even find a word apt enough to describe Professor Argent. 

“How is she even _teaching_ here?” He hissed. “Surely they can't let her teach here! She's a suspect, right?” 

Beside him, Derek shook his head, but he was staring at Stiles like he had never seen the likes of him before. 

“There was no evidence,” he explained. His expression was pinched as if he was struggling with arithmetic. “Her father works in the ministry and pulled some strings to back her up. The muggle police said it a freak accident. Anyway, not many people want the D.A.D.A. job in the first place.” He paused and took a careful breath. “…How are you okay with this?” 

Stiles could only gawp at Derek, incredulous. He was most definitely _not_ okay with this! 

“I am so _not_ okay with this!” he gritted out in case Derek had missed the memo that was his indignant fury. “How can anyone be okay with that demon in a human meat suit walking around —” 

“No.” Derek covered Stiles' mouth with his hand, forehead creased. “Let me speak. I mean … how are you okay with me being a werewolf? And how exactly did you figure it out?” 

He released Stiles' mouth and Stiles took a deep breath, clearing his throat. 

“Long story short,” Stiles began, “I tend to research every teacher I get to make sure they're not a psychotic murderer” — he winced — “or something. Makes my dad feel better about me being out of the country at boarding school — but all I found on Kate was her being an infamous werewolf hunter.” He pointed a finger at Derek. “You're also surprisingly not subtle — like, you're about as subtle as a bullhorn, dude —” 

“Don't call me dude —” 

Stiles waved a hand, ignoring the reflexive response. 

“Your eyes literally _just_ lit up like Christmas lights,” Stiles pressed on. “You _sniffed_ me right before you 'figured out'” — Stiles formed quotation marks with his fingers — “who I was — which, like, you really need to be less obvious about that, and it's totally weird that you remembered what I smell like. You also heard Harris's cat coming, even though it should have been impossible to hear, or even know, it was her.” He grabbed at Derek's arm next, poking at the bicep. “You also _hauled_ me up a staircase. Like there was seriously no effort from me. I could _feel_ you carrying me. My feet didn't touch the floor for, like, _seconds_ at a time.” He poked the bicep again for good measure before dropping it and dug an accusing finger in his chest. 

Derek did not even rub at the abuse. 

“And you were totally chill,” Stiles went on to say, “considering we ran like hell and I felt like I was _dying_ by the end of it.” He jabbed a finger between Derek's eyes, almost poking him and causing Derek to go slightly cross-eyed just to keep the offending appendage in view. 

“But you didn't even _break a sweat_ — honestly, I'm offended. _J'accusé!”_ Stiles gestured viciously at him. “Not only are you hot like asphalt in July, but you don't even huff and puff like the rest of us — and ain't that an ironic statement, huh, big bad wolf?” Stiles had a second to spare a smile before a worrying thought intruded his mind. “Also, be careful with Blake, that lady has issues with werewolves up the asshole — but you probably already knew that, considering you've been here a full three years longer than me, and hey, she wants the Defense job pretty badly — whoa, maybe _she's_ the one offing them? She could kill Argent for it too, so she might be useful in that regard. I need to do more investigating. I think I'm onto something here.” 

Derek's face was forming a complicated expression, but Stiles did not stop to think about it. He was far too used to the odd expressions people used when confronted with all that he was. Derek's reaction was just par for the course. 

A memory came to him, and Stiles' mood became subdued. 

“I remember reading something about a fire and her being accused, but cleared of all charges,” he said solemnly, shaking his head. “As with me being okay with it?” He scoffed. “Dude —” 

“Don't call me du —” 

_“Dude,”_ Stiles said, emphatic. He gestured adamantly at him. “You've been here seven years and _haven't_ killed anyone.” He smiled in encouragement. “Pretty sure that means you're safe. Also, I think it's really cool that you're a werewolf. I really like the blue flashy thing your eyes did. That's some major supernatural shit right there. I didn't even know werewolves could do that and, honestly, even if you _were_ a big, bad wolf, I'd still be okay with it because you're really cute —” 

Upon realizing what he was saying, Stiles froze. 

Derek raised an eyebrow at him. 

“So you think I'm — what was it — 'hot like asphalt in July' and 'cute'?” There was a sly smirk on Derek's lips that sort of, kind of, totally turned Stiles' legs to jelly. And just like that, Stiles was glad he did not have a filter for his mouth. The dark cloud that had descended upon Derek was gone, and Stiles suddenly found himself desiring to see Derek smile more, to always be there to see it. 

“I'm neither confirming or denying that, old man.” Stiles smiled at Derek. Maybe, just this once, he could be comfortable and brave enough in his own skin to admit things he usually could not. And when Derek laughed, Stiles felt even better about his decision. 

“Technically,” Derek said, and Stiles loved him for using the word like an asshole, “I'm from the U.S., so _over there_ I'm still underage. Although, my birthday is next month, so I'll gracefully accept it. Wouldn't want me turning into another Dunbar.” Stiles laughed so hard and so abruptly at that, that it came out as a long snort. He was mortified, but Derek was laughing and Stiles could stand to be painfully embarrassed if it meant that Derek got to have more smiles in his life. He was about to tell Derek to take full advantage of being young while he still could, when Erica came floating in, looking quite serene. 

“The coast is clear,” her voice echoed. Both boys were brought back to reality in a disorienting jolt. Because yeah, it was way past one in the morning and they were supposed to be hiding from Adrian Harris. “To both your common rooms,” she added as an afterthought. Derek nodded and his serious, Grumpy Cat face was quickly pulled back on, or maybe, now that Stiles knew Derek was a werewolf, he was more like a Sour Wolf. 

“Y'know, instead of Grumpy Cat —” Stiles stopped at that. 

There was a desire clawing at Stiles to clue Derek in on his private joke, if only to see him looking fondly exasperated, but Erica was there. He did not know if she knew about the whole werewolf thing, and it was likely best to keep it to himself, just in case. Still, there was a part of Stiles that heavily wished Erica had been gone just a bit longer. 

But Derek was looking at him expectantly, so Stiles shook his head. 

“Next time,” was all he could say. 

“Come on.” Derek stood and held out his hand. Stiles took it and pulled himself up, stumbling on his cape as he went. But Derek was a firm pillar of support, helping Stiles to his feet and keeping him from falling onto his face. And without a word, he took Stiles' hand and led him out of the bathroom as Erica tagged along, floating idly by, but not saying a word. Stiles had a sneaking suspicion that she had been around a little longer than they actually knew. 

He hoped she had not heard anything too incriminating. 

They arrived at the entrance to the Slytherin common room in no time at all, and Stiles noticed that Erica had moved to hang back, a secret smile on her face. 

After dropping his hand, Derek glanced around, but Stiles was sure that with Derek's apparent super-hearing, he would hear when someone was coming and take off with time to spare. Stiles was uncertain as he fidgeted. He knew both of them looked awkward just standing around in front of a stone wall, but he did not actually want to say goodbye. Not yet. 

It was silly, but Stiles felt that saying goodbye to Derek would be too final. He was positive it could cause a rift between them. He also knew his worries were just in his head, but he and Derek had made a connection tonight and he did not want to break it with the wrong words. Like Jackson and he were destined to hate each other _à la_ Link and Ganondorf, Stiles hoped Derek and he were destined _à la_ Link and Zelda. He just needed to figure out the right thing to say. 

Fortunately for his floundering brain, Derek was the first to act. 

He reached for Stiles' mask, gently prying it off his head. Stiles' hair was messy, his amber eyes wide. Briefly, he worried that Derek had made a big mistake by revealing his true identity. Not that he had planned on keeping it a secret, but masked heroes were always more attractive when they retained the mystery. He had also never felt more self-conscious of the moles all over his face as he was then. Another, more reasonable part of him argued that if Derek knew who he was, then he would know exactly who he could count on. And Stiles wanted that, to be that person. He knew Derek's secret, and he wanted Derek to know that it was he who would keep it. 

The voice drowned his doubts, and Derek's grin at the sight of him made his heart flutter. For a brief second, Derek's eyes trailed down to his chest, and _oh,_ Stiles understood what that meant now. But before he could even begin to feel embarrassed about Derek hearing his heart do weird emotional shit, Derek was meeting his eyes intently. 

And, yeah, that totally required all of Stiles' attention. 

“It's nice to know you have a face under that thing,” Derek said, his voice soft. 

A grin stretched Stiles' cheeks against his will, but he let it. He would never deny Derek a smile. Derek deserved all the smiles. 

“What, you like?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Stiles could see the flush on Derek's cheeks even in the dim light of the torches at the end of the hall. He was elated by it. 

“Shut up, Batman,” Derek grumbled, smooshing the mask back into Stiles' face and mussing his hair further. Stiles made an indignant noise at that, but took the mask back with a chuckle. 

“Ah, so you admit that you're Robin,” Stiles teased, but instead of refuting it, Derek merely smiled at him. 

“Only if you're my Batman.” 

And if that was not the most romantic thing Stiles had ever heard in his life, he would eat his damn wand, Lydia be damned. 

“Yeah, I can do that,” Stiles said, though his voice came out embarrassingly weak. 

“I'm Stiles, by the way,” he gently offered. He felt shy all of a sudden, and fuzzy around the edges like he would suddenly float if he moved. Or perhaps, the buzzing was from the butterflies zooming around his stomach like the flustered fucks they were. 

“Stiles.” Derek nodded at the name, whispering it mostly to himself. “Odd name,” he mused with a small grin. Stiles pulled a face and lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. 

“It's better than my real name.” He made a gagging noise and chuckled. Looking at Derek, he took a breath. “Mieczysław,” he said. “My mom named me, but people usually butcher the pronunciation and it feels like an insult to her memory, so Stiles is better. Don't tell anyone my real name. Not even Scott knows.” Derek seemed to contemplate the name for a moment before giving him an odd look. 

“So why do I get to know your name?” he asked. 

“You're an awesome werewolf who saved my thumbs,” Stiles said with a grin. By the confused look Derek sported, Stiles maybe had to reconsider the whole “fated to meet” thing. It definitely proved that Derek did not have the same fears as him. “You get special treatment.” Stiles winked. His flirting came off awkward, but Derek still laughed. 

“Good to know,” was all Derek replied. Then, suddenly, a glint of realization and a minute blanch of horror. He whispered, “Thumb screws.” 

And if that did not mean they were meant to be, Stiles would eat Mrs. Ennis. 

He frowned at himself. Maybe the true issue here was that he was hungry, what with all the promises to eat things. Though, he did start to wonder how exactly Derek knew about those thumb screws when he was a goody-two-shoes Head Boy in Gryffindor. 

“Terrifying,” Stiles said, returning to the conversation, and Derek gave him a commiserating nod. 

There was a moment of silence as Derek shifted on his feet in internal deliberation. Stiles could tell by the furrow in his brow and the nervous way his eyes searched Stiles' face. When he set his shoulders and met Stiles' gaze, it was obvious he had reached a decision. 

“Since you told me your real name,” Derek said softly, “I'll share something with you.” 

Stiles was intrigued. He lifted his eyebrows and waited, nervously fidgeting with the hem of his cape. He swallowed and said, “Yeah?” 

“I'm a different kind of werewolf,” Derek whispered, and Stiles felt his eyebrows almost disappear into his hair. 

“What,” he said. 

“It's like a different strain,” Derek said with a shrug. “Unlike the werewolves you know, in my family, we have complete control on full moons and we're not forced to transform if we don't want to.” He took a deep breath. His shoulders hunched unwittingly, adopting a vulnerable stance that left Stiles speechless. “I say my family, but it's just my uncle and my sisters now.” Derek laughed self-deprecatingly, and Stiles felt his heart clench at the sound. 

“I lied before — kind of,” Derek continued, pushing past the sorrow. “About what I do in the library.” Stiles nodded at him, egging him on, and Derek seemingly relaxed. “What I really do is research if there's a way I can use my blood to help those other werewolves. Like a vaccine. To give them control like my family and I have. I can't do that during the day. There's still a lot of stigma attached to being a werewolf, and I don't want to be found out.” 

“Oh,” Stiles said. 

He had a million questions. Two million. Just — so many questions. But Derek still stood there, that vulnerability not entirely gone. It made Stiles hurt. 

“That's amazing,” Stiles finally said, and it took everything in him not to ask the billion questions bubbling up in his throat. “Admirable, really,” Stiles said, and Derek's eyes lost a little more of the naked anxiety shining in them. 

“You think so?” Derek murmured, and Stiles nodded emphatically. 

“You want to _help_ people,” Stiles pointed out. “Could you _be_ any more perfect?” 

Derek smiled wryly. 

“I wouldn't go that far,” he said, and Stiles shook his head. 

“You totally are, shut up,” Stiles admonished with a wave of his hand. “And just so you know, I have like a gillion questions.” He shrugged. “But…” 

“But it's late,” Derek said, completing Stiles' thought. There was a finality in his tone that let Stiles know it was time to say goodbye. 

“Yeah,” Stiles reluctantly agreed. He offered a grateful smile. “Thanks for telling me,” he said. “And don't worry, I'll keep your heroic deed to myself.” 

Derek rolled his eyes, but he was smiling shyly. 

It was extremely charming. 

“Maybe I'll see you tomorrow,” Derek said then, and Stiles prayed that it was hope lacing Derek's tone. 

He forced himself to not look like a kicked puppy. It was really goodbye. Stiles did not think there was a real chance to see Derek again. Derek was a seventh year and in Gryffindor. Stiles was just a fourth year in Slytherin. They could probably manage to catch each other a few times over the next couple of months, but soon Derek's classes would get too hard in preparation for his N.E.W.T.s. There was also the fact that they both had friends of their own. Stiles would be an odd addition to Derek's crew, and Derek to his if he was being honest. 

“Yeah, maybe,” Stiles said, though he hardly believed it. He was preparing himself to walk away when his breath left him. Derek's lips were pressed against his cheek, and Stiles was all for it. More than. He wanted nothing more than to turn his head to introduce their lips and have them become very well-acquainted. 

But before he could so much as twitch, Derek was already pulling away. 

“Goodnight, Stiles,” Derek whispered into his cheek, and he shifted awkwardly, looking down at his feet. It became painfully obvious in that moment that Derek had never done that before, at least not with another guy if the awkward uncertainty rolling off him was anything to go by. And with that realization, a fierce fondness shot through Stiles, leaving him positively _aching._

He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around Derek and never let go. 

_I just found you,_ Stiles thought morosely. And he understood that only an idiot would let Derek go. 

“Goodnight, Derek.” Derek stepped away and left without another word, not even a glance behind him. Erica began to follow, and Stiles had almost forgotten she was there. He cleared his throat. “Goodnight, Erica,” he called, and she paused, turning in surprise. Blinking at him, she saluted and darted off after Derek. Stiles waited until they turned the corner to let his face fall with the misery he actually felt. Because he was an idiot who had let Derek go. 

Sighing, he uttered the password and the stone opened without protest. If Stiles had not known better, he would have thought that the dormitory had taken pity on him, as if it knew not to kick someone when they were already down. He barely made it to his bed before collapsing in exhaustion. 

* * *

Stiles woke the next morning to the bald head and chocolate-colored eyes of a stern-faced Vernon Boyd. 

“Stiles,” he said in his smooth, calm voice, “we're now officially late for Transfiguration.” 

Stiles bolted out of bed, hastily changing into his robes and pulling his wand from his dresser where he had left it the previous night. Stiles had forgotten it then, but Professor Deaton would undoubtedly turn him into a parrot if he forgot it today. 

Or maybe a leech, because _“those do not talk, Mr. Stilinski.”_

“Why didn't you wake me earlier?” he cried out to Boyd who watched him with an annoyed expression on his face. 

“I tried,” he huffed, “but all you'd do each time I did was tell me to leave you alone because of some bad-tempered cat or something. Then you'd roll over and fall asleep again.” He crossed his arms as he waited for Stiles to grab his books. 

It was a true testament to their friendship that Boyd had not just left him in bed and gone to class on his own. But now he had missed breakfast, and by the smell of it, Boyd had not. The delicious smell of breakfast foods clung to his clothes like a dream, and Stiles felt his mood sour. He grouchily slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and as though reading his mind, Boyd produced a napkin from nowhere. Tucked neatly in it were two slices of toast with strawberry jam. 

_“Dude,”_ Stiles said with such soft affection, that he could have very well said “I love you, please have my babies” and conveyed the exact same meaning. To his credit, Boyd gifted him one of his rare, gorgeous smiles when Stiles all but took off his fingers upon snatching the pieces of toast. With his free hand, he took Boyd by the arm and rushed from the room. 

They were halfway to the classroom when Stiles stuffed the last of the toast into his mouth and spotted Erica trailing out of a wall. She appeared her morose self, and he was hit by the memory of Derek's words. Instantly, Stiles halted, confusing Boyd as he was yanked to a stop. 

“Erica!” he shouted, spitting crumbs, and she turned to him in surprise, just like the previous night, pausing with half her body still inside the wall. 

“Oh, it's you,” she said, curiosity in her tone. “What do you want?” 

“Oh,” Stiles faltered, noticing that Boyd had gone curiously still beside him. “I just wanted to say hi.” He shrugged. “Also, thanks for last night.” 

“No problem,” she replied, and there was a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. 

“Stiles, we're _late,”_ Boyd gently reminded, and Stiles startled. 

“Oh, shit, yeah,” he said, looking around wildly. He pointed to Boyd. “Erica this is Boyd. Boyd, that's Erica — Erica, I gotta go, but I'll catch ya later!” Without waiting for a reply, Stiles hauled Boyd back into motion, smiling to himself when he heard Boyd speak up. 

“Nice to meet you,” Boyd called back to her, and Stiles could hear her delighted giggle as they turned a corner. “What _happened_ last night?” he asked Stiles. 

“Later!” Stiles promised as he pulled Boyd down another corridor. 

They were almost there when the boys were met with a large crowd. Something big was going on by the way everyone hooted and hollered, but Stiles did not have time for this! 

“Dammit, dammit, dammit!” Stiles cursed as he tried to find a way around it. 

“What in the world is going on here?” 

He stilled at Alan Deaton's voice. Students were moving aside and Stiles forced his way through the crowd, dragging Boyd behind him. He broke to the edge of the inner circle and hovered there, glancing about the scene. There was a handsome, blonde, curly-haired boy, holding what appeared to be a heavy, dumpy-looking, wriggling toad. 

“Professor,” said the teen, “someone turned Liam into a toad!” Stiles suddenly recognized the teen as Isaac Lahey, adopted brother to Liam Dunbar, now a toad. A piercing hope ran through him, leaving him breathless, and he looked around frantically. 

He was about to shove his way to the front of everyone, when he saw Derek, standing innocently on the sidelines. Tragically, according to Stiles' quite devastated heart, Derek was even better-looking in the daylight that streamed into the open-air corridor. His skin was tan, smooth and beautiful, his gorgeous eyes a multitude of colors that coalesced into what looked like an opalescent sage green. 

There were definitely Veela genes in Derek, if Stiles' jelly legs had any say in it. Or perhaps that different strain of werewolf was just a magically hot variety. Either way, Stiles did not think he had ever seen a more beautiful person. 

The best part was that Derek seemed to have an equally beautiful soul. 

Their gazes met and Derek winked at him before subtly disappearing into the crowd. A large grin broke out on Stiles' face and his heart lifted from the depths of the miserable swamp it struggled through the night before. Maybe there was a chance for them after all. 

“Wow, Grumpy Cat,” he whispered and he hoped that Derek could hear him over the noise, “looks like bribing a seventh year is better than making a sloppy potion.” While Stiles was distracted with the beauty that was Derek, Professor Deaton turned the toad back into a boy, and Isaac helped a half-hopping Liam into Deaton's classroom where they were to take Transfiguration. By the sound of Isaac's protesting, he was still upset someone had turned his brother into a toad. Deaton, however, began to clear the crowd, briefly questioning the onlookers before sending them on their way. 

Stiles caught sight of Derek leaning against a wall several feet apart, seemingly undisturbed with the happenings around him. He grinned at Derek's lounging form as Deaton paused to speak to him. 

“Wish I knew what I'd bribed you with,” he teased, but Derek remained unresponsive, meeting Deaton's gaze levelly and shaking his head at whatever he had been asked. Stiles struggled to think up something witty enough to make Derek break character. Professor Deaton seemingly abandoned the search for the culprit and was ushering Boyd into the class. He tossed Stiles a glare full of suspicion, so Stiles started to reluctantly follow. But just before he could lose his chance, he loudly blurted in a last-ditch effort, “C'mon, Derek, don't be such a _Sour Wolf.”_

Stiles would later agree that seeing Derek choke on his snort was worth being the guinea pig for Professor Deaton's lectures the rest of the week.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Please don't read the older fic. I'm not kidding.
> 
> Twitter: [@nanadanonini](https://twitter.com/nanadanonini)  
> Tumblr: [@floreswrites](http://floreswrites.tumblr.com/)


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